


About Being Gay

by A_Candle_For_Sherlock



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Coming Out, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Idiots in Love, John may have made this more complicated than it really is, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited, Romantic Fluff, post-s4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-09-20 15:31:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9498473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Candle_For_Sherlock/pseuds/A_Candle_For_Sherlock
Summary: From a Tumblr headcanon by @atikiology! "I live for the day Rosie learns what the word 'gay' means and she proceeds to ask John, 'Dad, is Sherlock gay?' And John goes into this endless spluttering explanation about how Sherlock is a very complicated person and we just don’t know. We can’t be sure. And the next time they’re over at 221B Rosie looks up from Sherlock’s picture book about poisonous plants, gives Sherlock a look and asks, 'Are you gay, Sherlock?' and Sherlock, without missing a beat, just says 'Yes,' and continues drinking his tea, and Rosie says 'Ah,' and goes back to her plant book, and John nearly doubles over in the corner."





	

He should have been more alert for danger, after the unnatural peace of the last hour. Rosie’s lying on her belly in the corner with a book, the late afternoon sun's pouring in through the windows, warming the room, and Sherlock's draped in his chair with his laptop and a lapful of periodicals, typing in little bursts between consulting several copies of Elle and an almanac. (”What in the world are you doing?” “Writing up a comparative chronology of several years’ astrological predictions and the placebo effect on readers’ self-perceptions, as aligned with recorded lunar phases.” "Oh.”)

The kettle’s clicked off in the kitchen, and he’s found chocolate biscuits in the upper corner cupboard and poured out their tea, humming under his breath (Beach Boys, he realizes later; his dad had played their records on slow Saturdays like this); has just settled down with a steaming cup and a novel when Rosie looks up and says, “Sherlock, are you gay?”

He jerks; nearly spills the tea. A cold flood of pure adrenaline pours through him, ebbing just in time for him to hear Sherlock’s vague, distracted, “Yes,” followed by the rustle of a page turning. A little “Hmph” as Sherlock readjusts his bum in the chair.

“Ah.” Rosie’s still lying nearly nose-against-the-page, studying the pictures, Sherlock’s still typing, the room is entirely silent and John appears to be the only one in it having trouble breathing. She’d just--asked, and Sherlock had just answered. Why hadn’t Sherlock ever _said_ before?--Why had it seemed so impossible to just mention that he was wondering? ("Goddamn filthy faggots, spreading disease," says his dad’s voice in his mind, "You know I'm never going to let a daughter of mine go queer, Harriet Watson--")

“John,” says Sherlock, and John uncurls his fists deliberately, takes a breath, and then another, and looks up at last to find Sherlock’s gaze on him, full of concern.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” John hisses, well aware of Rosie’s raised head and questioning eyes.

“Why does it matter?” and John wants to weep, or shout. He laughs.

“I just--wanted to know. Things. About you. It matters because it’s you. It’s us.”

“Oh.” Sherlock blinks a little, and says, “I’m gay, John. I apologize for not mentioning,” and he sounds so sincere that John laughs again and feels the pressure of certain ideas grow stronger in his chest.

"All right. Well. I’m. I’m bisexual, I believe. If it matters,” he says, very aware of the strain in his voice, and then the room grows perfectly quiet again, and it’s about three minutes before Sherlock says,

“Thank you. It matters.”

And an hour or so later, when Rosie’s taken herself off downstairs to help sort out Mrs. Hudson’s windowsill garden, and John’s in the kitchen doing the washing up, there’s a step behind him and Sherlock’s voice saying again, “It does matter, John,” and John turns around and finds Sherlock staring at him. “Why didn’t _you_ say?”

Oh, but he isn’t ready for this. “I didn’t like to think about it.”

“Why not?”

“Can’t you deduce it?”

“Not this, John.” The trouble in Sherlock’s tone is palpable. “The human mind is complex. Motivations for crime tend to be simple, selfish. Instinctive. Pride, anger, fear. Motivation in the personal arena is much harder to accurately divine.”

“Think you've just hit the nail on the head, actually.” John wipes his suds-damp palms on his shirt, smooths out the hem. “Pride--didn’t like to just volunteer something like that. It’s pretty personal. Anger--I didn’t always like that about myself. I didn’t want to name it.” He sighs. “Fear, because I didn't want to lose my privacy. If I’d admitted I wasn’t only straight, you’d have started to wonder who I was interested in besides all those boring women.” A rising heat in his face. He looks down.

Silence. Then, “Who else, John? Besides the women?”

“Seriously?” He tries a smile, gives it up in the face of Sherlock’s earnestness. “James Sholto, for one. Took me long enough to figure that out, but there was something. Think Sean Connery does it for me, too.” He attempts another smile.

“John. Please.”

“All right. Yes. And you. I was interested in you.”

Sherlock lets go a long breath; shakes his head; rubs both hands over his face, then scrubs them through his hair. “Why not _say?”_

“Sherlock, you told me--Married to your work, you said, and flattered, but--And people kept pointing it out, and you’d just keep quiet, and I didn’t want to admit to myself--” He’s having trouble speaking clearly. “I didn’t _tell_ you because I’d have _lost_ you, Sherlock! Nobody wants to hear about their flatmate’s awkward feelings. And then you were dead, and then you weren’t, but I was getting married, and--Oh, hell,” because now he's near tears; that part’s too much to talk about, the memory of his confusion and despair when even a proper marriage and all the safety in the world couldn’t make him forget what he was missing, couldn't give him home.

“Oh,” Sherlock echoes, in a whisper, and then he’s stepping across the space between them, nearer than he’s been in ages, and his eyes are wide and fixed on John’s and shining strangely.

He waits a minute, while John takes deep breaths and fights with too many feelings at once, but just as he’s managed to get them mostly wrestled into place Sherlock reaches out and touches his hand; takes it into his large, warm one, watching him.

“And now?”

“Now?”

“You aren’t married now,” Sherlock says, unsteadily, “and you’re here now, and I'm not dead, and you said, you said before, you wanted me--but you didn’t say whether you do now.”

“Yes. Yes, I do. Still,” and his heart is starting to pound, and now Sherlock's smiling.

“Good,” a bit breathlessly. “Me too. Still.”

“Still? Oh, God, you bastard--You never said--You liked me?"

"I loved you, John," he says. "I love you."

Half an hour later, Rosie comes bursting into the flat and surprises them sitting tangle-legged on the sofa, John's head on Sherlock's chest, Sherlock's arms wrapped tight around him. Rosie stops short. "Did you kiss?"

"Yes, baby." He'd have thought he'd be panicking about now. His heart is beating quicker, but it's surprisingly hard to panic properly being held like this. "Is that okay?"

She nods soberly. "I know about being gay. It's all that kissing and people in love."

"Yes, exactly, Rosamund," says Sherlock.


End file.
